


Liberties & Assuming the Worst - two christmas present fics

by Paraxdisepink



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Fights, M/M, Makeup Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraxdisepink/pseuds/Paraxdisepink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as requests. The first was Archie/Wellard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liberties

Wellard drew his greatcoat tighter around him, more for security than to ward off an  
actual chill. The night air was cold, to be sure, with the rain beating down against  
 _Renown_ ’s sides, but he did not feel it; his skin was hot, itching with anxiety.

Sleep eluded him, and he had left the midshipmen’s’ berth seeking solitude while the others slept carefree and content. They appeared so untroubled by the state of the ship that Wellard sometimes felt as though they served under a different captain. Perhaps they trusted the lieutenants to take care of matters, believing it their duty not to question, or perhaps they were blinded by Sawyer’s reputation. In either case, Wellard wanted to be away from them. 

He had not got far when he heard the companion ladder creak. A broad shadow appeared, and instantly Wellard shrank back into the darkness beyond the hatchway, fearing it was Randall. For a moment, Wellard stood holding his breath, recalling the man’s ferocity in that brawl earlier. What if Randall had come seeking revenge for having his sport interrupted? A wave of sickness rolled through Wellard’s gut; he would have no chance against a brute like that and the lieutenants were not here to save him now. 

But he was relieved when the light revealed a polished shoe buckle and then the blue skirts of a lieutenant’s jacket, and finally the shimmering strands of a long blond queue beneath a bicorn worn fore‘n’aft, in the new fashion. Lieutenant Kennedy. Wellard exhaled, letting his arms fall to his sides. Randall would not dare bother him now. 

The relief was short-lived, however. Kennedy took off his hat, wet from the rain, and began walking away. Wellard stared hard after him, an unsettling mix of confusion and frustration burning under his skin. He was taller than Kennedy, but he could not help admiring the lieutenant’s figure, broad and sturdy, his wide shoulders flattered by his neatly pressed coat and his golden hair turned silver by the moonlight. The other mids liked Kennedy – he was efficient and never heavy-handed, and he would smile at you if you warranted it, though never in the way he smiled at Hornblower. Some whispered that he and Hornblower were sweet on one another. Wellard supposed that was none of his business. He also supposed that none of those whispering mids ever let their gaze linger so long on Kennedy as he did. 

His cheeks stung with guilt to do so now, as though he were trespassing, *stealing* something from his superior officer. That was absurd; he was merely looking at him and had no need to skulk in the shadows like a thief. Far from it; he had much to say to Kennedy. Wellard straightened, clearing his throat, knowing he had to speak before Kennedy stepped out of earshot. On this ship he could not trust being overheard. 

“Sir . . .” He whispered it faintly, but Kennedy turned. Wellard crossed into the light, stopping less than a foot from the fourth lieutenant at the bottom of the ladder, unsure of why he suddenly found it so hard to speak or why the heat in his cheeks deepened. He swallowed once to compose himself, and then said, “I didn’t thank you for your assistance this afternoon – with Randall that is, sir.” 

Kennedy scowled, for a moment his expression as fierce as when he at roared at Randall earlier, but after a moment the scowl faded and his mouth curved into a slight smile. “There’s no need, Mr. Wellard,” he said, coolly formal, but titled his head and peered at Wellard for a long moment, as though wanting to say more. Wellard wondered briefly if Randall had been dressed down further. Hornblower had threatened him with death, hovering protectively behind Kennedy’s shoulder, but Wellard suspected Hornblower had only done that to be sure Randall did not dare disrespect Kennedy in turn for intervening. Wellard was fairly certain Hornblower cared nothing for him. 

“I think the men will fight again,” he rambled after a moment when Kennedy’s scrutiny became too awkward. “At least they will if the Captain lets them carry on like they are.” Wellard had always imagined fighting below decks punishable by flogging, but Captain Sawyer only seemed interested in intimidating his officers and not demanding order among his crew. 

“Shh.” Kennedy put a finger to his small mouth, his eyes darting about. Wellard blinked, his cheeks burning to have been stupid enough to forget the danger of being overhead and criticizing the Captain aloud. But after a moment of hearing nothing but the rain and the creaking of the ship, Kennedy seemed to relax. His expression did not completely soften, however. “Come with me, Mr. Wellard.” He turned, motioning for Wellard to follow. 

Wellard swallowed hard, fearing that _he_ had now earned the dressing down. He was only a midshipman and therefore had no right to disapprove of how one of Nelson’s own chose to run his ship. Hornblower would tell him as much and had already scolded him for mocking Bush earlier, but this was Kennedy. Yet for all Hornblower’s sternness and adherence to the Articles and their punishments, Wellard would find chastening from him far less devastating. From Kennedy he wanted smiles and laughter, not censure. But he had to obey, and so followed after him, a nervous knot tightening inside his chest. 

The fourth lieutenant led him into one of the dark storerooms. When he bolted the door, a strange excitement stirred under Wellard’s skin to be alone with him, replacing the dread of a moment ago. He regretted the lack of light when Kennedy removed his jacket and hung it over the cutout, wishing he could drink in the pleasing sight of Kennedy’s muscular arms through his thin shirt. The heat burned stronger in Wellard’s face; there he went taking liberties again. 

After a moment, Kennedy turned to face him in the dark. Something in his manner suggested that he was ill at ease, distracted, but that did not matter; Wellard only delighted in having his private attention. “Mr. Wellard, I believe you and I share an understanding,” Kennedy began in his cool, aristocratic way. “But for the time being I’m afraid we’ll have to keep it to ourselves. 

Wellard blinked. Kennedy was referring to the state of the ship and their disapproval of the Captain. Relief filled him that someone would even vaguely acknowledge that things were amiss, but then confusion set in. Why must they keep it to themselves? Wellard had always imagined that Hornblower and Kennedy stood in agreement on everything, as though sharing one mind. 

“Hornblower has sided with Bush, sir?” The prospect was beyond disappointing; he admired Hornblower as a brilliant and honorable officer, but Wellard supposed in some ways Kennedy far outshone him in courage. Kennedy spoke his mind, even if his recklessness in doing so gave Hornblower silent fits. 

In the darkness, Wellard could see Kennedy shake his head. “Lieutenant Hornblower has of late expressed an adamant reluctance to engage in any behavior which might send him to the noose.” By his tone, Wellard understood that he had struck a nerve. 

“But what does this mean, sir?” he stepped closer to ask, lowering his voice. Were the others not allies or did they simply wish to turn a blind eye? He took a wicked pleasure in sharing this secret with Kennedy, wanting to step even closer and whisper together in the nature of secrets, but then felt vaguely alarmed that he and Kennedy were only ones in agreement where Sawyer was concerned. 

Kennedy sighed. “I don’t know.” He sounded tired. Wellard wondered if he had argued with Hornblower. The two shared quarters; perhaps Kennedy had come down here to avoid him. 

Frowning, Wellard moved nearer to stand beside Kennedy, leaning his back against the door. “Are you well, sir?” It was not his place to inquire on the private matters of a superior officer, but the idea of Kennedy brooding over Hornblower filled him with strange jealousy. He pressed close against Kennedy’s shoulder, excited by the warmth of him. 

“Well enough, I suppose,” Kennedy answered, distant despite their proximity. Wellard’s frown deepened and he did not know what else to do but continue talking. 

“I fear the Captain will see Hornblower swing if he can. He seems to have it in for him.” 

At Hornblower’s name, Kennedy tensed against his shoulder, but in the next moment he scornfully snorted. “They either despise or worship him, Mr. Wellard. He allows no middle ground. Today he seems in a mood to be despised.” 

“I’d say he succeeded with the Captain, sir. I was sure Mr. Hornblower would cop it for greeting Lieutenant Bush in Mr. Buckland’s place. Weren’t you frightened, sir? The Captain was on the verge of – “ 

Kennedy cut him off, finding his hand in the darkness and squeezing hard. “Mr. Wellard, you mustn’t –“ 

But he must, for so long he had wanted to speak of how much the Captain and his minions frightened him – Hobbs, Clive, and Randall – and now that the chance had presented itself Wellard did not wish to be silent. “But, sir, what will we do if Saw –“ 

He stopped. Kennedy turned and took his face in both hands, and the next thing Wellard knew the lieutenant’s mouth was on his, hot, and firm, and quick. Something ignited within him, burning like a fever. His arms wound around Kennedy’s neck and he clung, giddy and terrified. 

It was not until Kennedy had pulled away that Wellard made sense of the heat that had overtaken him. His superior officer had kissed him and he was aroused. Panic clutched within his breast; this was a sin, a crime, and he ought to take his arms from around Kennedy’s neck. 

He could hear Kennedy breathing, feel him tense against him, but when the lieutenant spoke his tone was much too casual for the severity of what they had done. “Footsteps, Mr. Wellard,” he explained. “I don’t mean to take liberties.” 

Footsteps? Wellard’s face burned, feeling a fool. He could hear the faint clack of heels outside their door, perhaps Buckland or one of the other midshipmen. Kennedy had only meant to silence him because his tongue had run away with him again. Wellard supposed the little sin of kissing did not carry so high a price as letting their contempt for Sawyer be overhead. 

But Kennedy’s chest was hot against his – Wellard could feel his heart beating – and he thought he had imagined enthusiasm in that kiss. Perhaps he might dare flatter himself into thinking that somewhere deep down Kennedy wanted him, or at least was lonely enough at sea to want _someone_. 

“No, not at all, sir,” Wellard stammered, his throat dry. “Quite the contrary, I . . .” He did not know how to say that he was more than unrepulsed, that he wanted . . . His arms tightened and he clumsily crushed his mouth to Kennedy’s again. 

Wellard felt emboldened by his own courage; he initiated, asked for more. Kennedy seemed taken aback but he gave it, his hands going to Wellard’s forearms as his mouth responded, without any of the sloppiness of the other boys Wellard had kissed. Kennedy was experienced; Wellard could tell. But after a moment Kennedy’s hands fell and he tried to step back. 

“Mr. Wellard, we’re . . .” Not supposed to do this, Wellard supposed Kennedy meant to say, but he did not give him the chance. His mouth found Kennedy’s once more, pressing hard, offering all he had if only Kennedy would let this go on. 

“I know, sir,” he managed in a hoarse whisper when he stopped to breathe. But then “sir” seemed inappropriate, dirty, considering what they were doing. “Mr. Kennedy, “ Wellard corrected. That was better. He moved his mouth to Kennedy’s warm neck, feeling the lieutenant’s pulse throb under his lips. He started to move even lower, ready to sink to his knees. Surely Kennedy was fraught enough to want . . . . 

“No.” Strong hands seized his shoulders, keeping him upright. Wellard froze in sheer panic. He was aroused and could not hide it, his prick pressing against Kennedy’s thigh. He had to do something before Kennedy stopped him and pushed him away, had to win the older man over somehow. 

Kennedy took the matter from him, backing him the few steps to the bulkhead. He pressed Wellard there, breathing hard, throwing his heavy body against Wellard’s small frame. On instinct, Wellard began grinding back against him, seeking contact with every inch of the other man’s muscular body, burying his face in Kennedy’s neck and clinging to his jacket. Kennedy panted in his ear as they writhed, their cheeks pressed hotly together. Intense sensation surged through Wellard’s party; a part of him feared he would not survive it. 

“Oh God . . .” He bit into the thick damp wool at Kennedy’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his sweating fingers into the lieutenant’s broad back. His body shuddered, the room suddenly bright as he came off in one sharp spasm after another. 

When the climax ebbed, Wellard was left with a cooling mess in his trousers, his body weak and drained. Kennedy had already pulled away. Wellard could hear him rasping in the blackness, but without his sturdy body to lean against Wellard could not hold himself up. 

He sank to the floor, staring up at Kennedy’s solid shape in the darkness. Shame welled up in him to have forgotten himself with a superior officer, and then fear for the consequences of that trespass, and underneath it all a dim hope that Kennedy would want more. 

“I . . .” Kennedy began after he seemed to catch his breath. Wellard took small comfort in the way he faltered, knowing he was nervous and confused as well. But Kennedy was composed when he continued. “Mr. Wellard, I hope you understand I mean you no harm.” 

Wellard blinked. Did Kennedy fear being taken for a lecher? He had heard of lascivious officers charged with having their way with the ship’s boys, but surely Kennedy must knew he could never think such a thing of him. 

“Of course not, sir,” he rushed to say, finding it strange to be the one in the position to allay fears. Kennedy could have him hanged if he wanted; a midshipman’s word was nothing against a lieutenant’s. 

“Right, then.” Kennedy spoke with more conviction now, though Wellard wondered if it were a mask. Sometimes Kennedy could be hard to read. “As we were before.” 

Wellard’s heart sank. Though what else could he expect? It was not as though Kennedy would begin an illicit, disgraceful relationship with a junior officer. Still, the hurt would not leave him that this incident would have to be put behind them, never to be spoken of again. Wellard wondered if Kennedy would be distant toward him now, or resentful, and wanted strangely to sob at the thought. Matters on this ship were too unbearable to lose the only ally he had. 

“May I take my leave, sir?” he asked quietly, with perfect respect, getting up from the floor. 

“Yes . . .” The fourth lieutenant’s voice was equally quiet, but then he swallowed and tried again. “Yes. Goodnight, Mr. Wellard.” 

Kennedy grabbed his hand then and shook it. Wellard’s head whirled with confusion where it had spun with giddy desire a moment before. What was this? A gentlemen’s agreement that Kennedy would keep silent about what had passed between them if he did? Wellard frowned, cold as he stepped out of the storeroom and into the passageway, making his way back to the midshipmen’s berth, wondering if Kennedy would confess what they had done to Hornblower or if this would be another strange secret shared only between them.


	2. Assuming the Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The request was for Archie to punch Horatio in the face.

Once the storeroom door had closed behind him Archie sank to the floor, his face in his   
hands. Had he gone mad? This was not Drury Lane where he could indulge in illicit   
liaisons, go home, and think no more about it afterward. This was a Navy ship and he was   
a lieutenant – a grown man – who should never have allowed a sixteen year-old boy to   
throw himself at his superiors like that. What if it had been Bush, or even Horatio –   
someone less forgiving? Wellard would have been hanged, or punished at least.

But perhaps Wellard was not a fool and had sensed in him . . . . It did not matter; Archie was not ashamed of it. He could still see Wellard’s big eyes, watching him from the shadows beneath the ladder. For a moment they had reminded Archie of Horatio’s eyes, shy and innocent yet hungry. Perhaps he had still been thinking of Horatio when he had taken Wellard’s face in his hands had kissed him. 

It had only seemed a reflex at the time – he often kissed Horatio to silence him and he had been well out of his wits, thinking of what had passed between them during the long hours of his watch. Only a moment later had he realized what he had done, but even then it had been too late. He had set something intense and unstoppable in motion that he had never anticipated. 

Archie wet his lips; he could still taste the younger man’s mouth, grinding urgently against his own, begging Archie not to stop or reject him. For a bare moment, Archie had felt trapped, neither wanting him nor wanting to hurt him, but then that cold feeling had faded and he had found himself responding. Wellard was pretty, and it had been a long time since he’d had anyone but Horatio. He had felt young for a moment, caught up in the thrill of courtship and conquest all over again. Then the coldness had returned and he had simply let Wellard tire himself out, wanting the whole mess to be over. 

They would have to face one another again. Archie hoped Wellard would understand that their encounter had been born of a moment of weakness, that senior and junior officer were not supposed to have those sort of relations. Better for Wellard’s sake if he understood that men were forbidden from such relations at all, but Archie was not enough of a hypocrite to tell him so directly. No understanding between them would take away the sick feeling in his belly though, and this was one matter where he could not turn to Horatio for counsel; now that they were no longer lovers, confessing to the incident would be inappropriate. 

At least he did not have to worry about Wellard bringing forth charges and seeing him hanged, though at the moment Archie was not particularly attached to his life. This ship was a nightmare leading them all to the grave anyway and he could not help but think that a bad end on his part would serve Horatio right. Let Horatio stew in the pain for the rest of his days at what his righteousness had cost him. 

No, that would be granting Horatio too much importance. Horatio was simply an idiot, that was all, a naïve idiot who needed philosophy books and the Articles to form his views of the world. Archie may have been raised in a manor house the son of an earl, but he had seen hell and knew not to scorn a good thing regardless of the form it took or of how the world viewed it. But even that was not the problem. Horatio was a coward, pure and simple; Archie wanted to shout it to every man who had ever been loyal to Horatio, who had ever admired him. 

The thought strengthened him, but still Archie did not get up from the floor. He lowered his hands from his face at least, wrapping his arms about his knees. 

_The Captain’s just weary, Archie,_ Horatio had tried to tell him when he had dared breech that subject. And then more coldly later, _Not anymore, Archie, this isn’t the Indie,_ when Archie had been willing to drop it and coax Horatio into his bed instead. 

Not anymore . . . Not, not now or not here, but not anymore. And then Horatio had turned away, too good to even look a mutinous lieutenant. Archie leaned his head back against the wood, physically hurting. 

Footsteps echoed outside in the passageway, but it was only when someone jostled the door that Archie paid the sounds any attention. He straightened, but did not bother getting up – Wellard had not latched the door – but only spent a moment trying to compose himself for whomever he would meet. The door opened. Gilded lantern light washed over the room, but the figure stepping inside was the last Archie had expected. 

Horatio was so tall that Archie’s neck ached trying to look up at him from the floor. He closed the door behind him again, so quietly that Archie dared hope Horatio might turn back into the lover he used to know, the Horatio who would notice his despondent mood and sit by him until he had soothed it away. That hope crumbled, however, when Horatio’s features hardened, his brow furrowing as he took in the disordered state of Archie’s clothing and hair. Archie’s chest clenched. Horatio knew. 

“I saw Wellard leave,” he said in a cold, distant voice, and then his eyes narrowed. “You’ve wasted very little time, haven’t you?” 

Archie froze, his throat tightening. For a moment he could only sit there under Horatio’s accusatory stare. Horatio was hurt, he could see that, but Archie felt nothing in response to that yet. He felt caught. He had not wanted Horatio to know, for fear Horatio would only assume he had gone to Wellard for revenge and of how Horatio might regard Wellard afterward. The boy had enough enemies on this ship already. 

“It isn’t any of your business.” Archie tried to sound firm, but in truth he wanted to push past Horatio and flee the whole mess. Horatio would not allow it though, standing between Archie and the door, and for the second time tonight Archie felt miserably trapped. 

“ _How can you say that?_ ” Horatio barely restrained himself from shouting. A tendon in his jaw twitched as he bounded forward and dropped to the floor. 

Forcing himself to straighten, Archie stared back at him. He would not look away. Instead, he clung to the anger sweeping over him. Horatio had no call to cast him aside and then dare to be hurt. Archie wet his lips to tell him so. 

“Seeing as how matters are different between us now I no longer feel obliged to impart to you what should be considered private.” After all, was that not what Horatio’s keeping him from his bed was all about? Putting such distance between them that sharing Archie’s mutinous confidences would be inappropriate. Horatio did hold his duty and the Articles sacred, not to mention Captain Sawyer. 

Horatio’s mouth fell open, taken aback. The hypocrite, but no doubt he was blind to his own motives in pushing Archie away earlier. Archie knew he had hurt him really and truly this time, though somehow the wound was not enough. But Horatio clamped his mouth shut in the next moment, lips pressed in a hard line as he leaned forward on one palm. 

“Archie, are you so ridiculous as to tell me that your feelings have changed in the space of a few hours?” He kept his words low – they could not afford to be overheard – yet his expression was not his familiar childlike wounded look, but harsh and fierce, the face he had shown to the men when threatening Randall earlier. Archie sank further into the floor. How had things managed to crumble so fast between them that Horatio could no longer be himself before him but would instead don the mask of Lieutenant Hornblower as though Archie were someone he must hide from? “I never claimed to stop caring for you as –“ 

Archie shook his head; even that was cold. “As much as you might,” he finished for him. Horatio did not care for him or even his own life so much as his precious honor, though what honor lay in ignoring the truth about the Captain and the ship Archie could not fathom. 

Yet Horatio continued to castigate him with his dark, condemning eyes, unwilling to concede an inch of the gentleness and understanding Archie had admired in him. Instead he sat there not far away, but from behind a barrier that would allow nothing to be communicated or made right. How could they have reached such a point? Archie swallowed hard, fighting down his own flailing misery over the whole matter. 

“I can’t believe you,” Horatio hissed again after a moment, leaning back on both hands, waiting. Archie bit his lip. What was Horatio expecting? A rambling apology? Tears? He had no right, not when he had turned away first. Did Horatio think to own him, condemning him yet expecting him to remain faithful all the same, like a wife? Archie’s blood boiled. Being at odds with Horatio may have agonized him, but he was not prepared to beg forgiveness for what Horatio had no right to expect of him. In fact, if only briefly, he felt strangely proud of what had happened with Wellard; now Horatio would know that he was not the only lover Archie could have. But that was not right; he would never take advantage of Wellard’s infatuation and use him in that way. 

“Nor I you,” Archie answered instead, his own hurt showing through his words despite how he wished to contain it, and despite how he wanted to hide behind as much distance as Horatio he found himself going on. “I loved you since the day I saw you. I never thought you’d be so cruel as to spit on that.” Christ, he had given himself to Horatio, even when the thought of lying with another man had made him ill. He had done it out of love and trust, not to be hurt every time Horatio grew frightened or shunned when he disagreed. Damn it, but Archie did not fear death in battle so much as feared that one of these times Horatio would decide their affair was not worth the risk to his reputation and stay away for good. 

Horatio blinked, and then lowered his face to stare hard at the floor. His restraint was not working so well now. “I wasn’t cruel,” he insisted, his eyes still hard when he looked up in that infuriating stubborn way of his, when only he could be right. Archie curled his hand into a fist, itching to knock that sense of righteous superiority cold out of him. “Think of the danger, if you hold nothing else sacred. The same applies to you and . . . him,” he finished with a roll of his eyes. 

Ah, so now Wellard was not even permitted a name, and he was to be crucified not only for being unconsciously unfaithful but as a reckless fool as well. Archie’s hand clenched tighter. “Just because you’re scared to doesn’t mean I am,” he snapped back. Sometimes Horatio behaved as though they were the only two sodomites in the world. 

Horatio rolled his eyes again, evidently growing more disgusted. “This isn’t a test of bravery, Archie, but a matter of prudence.” 

Prudence? Archie snorted, seething inside. Horatio was a fine one to talk about prudence. He had shown none of it days ago when arguing with the Captain over shortening sail, and it was not prudence that had led him to dallying with the enemy back in France. 

Archie blinked. He did not know why the incident had come to mind all of a sudden, but the memory filled him with a new bitterness. This was not the first time Horatio had run scared and Archie felt the need to remind him of that. 

“What would be more prudent, Horatio?” he cocked his head and demanded. “Should I wait until we reach Santo Domingo, find an enemy strumpet there, and call it even?” 

He had gone too far. Archie knew it, but no man should be so fragile that he could not bear being called out for his errors. Horatio froze, his mouth working and his eyes on fire. Then he stretched forward on his palms like a riled animal ready to spring, his eyes two knives pinning Archie to the bulkhead. 

“I’d thank you not to call her a strumpet, Archie. If not for her I’d have been dragged to the guillotine.” Again, Archie snorted. So now she was a hero. At the time it had been _I never wanted her, Archie. I don’t know what came over me._ At the time, _h_ e had been the one Horatio had heaped his gratitude upon for his life. “It’s in the past, besides,” Horatio added roughly, as though reading Archie’s thoughts and knowing not how to answer for himself. 

“Appeal to the Pope, then, to have her canonized.” The acid reply was the only clear thing that would leave Archie’s tongue. The rest was all incoherent anger. 

“And you?” Horatio was equally seething now. At least Archie still had that much power over him. “I thought you’d have learned from your own past, knowing firsthand the damage done by preying on little boys.” 

That was too much. Archie’s arm flung out, slamming his fist into Horatio’s jaw, his blood burning with blind anger. Horatio had no right to compare him to that monster, none at all. He had not taken advantage of Wellard nor allowed him to compromise himself in the least. 

When his vision cleared of the white-hot anger flooding through him, Archie found Horatio sitting back, rubbing at his face. The lantern light already revealed a red mark there, but that was not what concerned Archie for the moment; Horatio’s eyes were huge and livid, in a way he had never seen them, yet even fear for that was not enough to take away the fury pounding through him. 

“You’ve no right to mention –“ 

Horatio seized him by the shoulders, cutting him off. Archie stilled; he could feel Horatio’s fingers digging into him through the flimsy linen of his shirt, hard and bruising for being so thin. He could not breathe for a moment, looking up into those blazing eyes, fearing for the first time that Horatio meant to do him harm. Horatio’s grip tightened, staring so hard into his face that Archie thought his gaze should have scorched him. 

“You belong to me, Archie,” he ground out. “It’s as simple as that.” 

Archie’s mouth fell open, strangely ill inside. He tried to wrench a hand free to strike Horatio again; he was no one’s property. But before he could, Horatio yanked him closer, diving for his mouth, grinding their lips together hard enough for Archie to feel his teeth. 

Horatio was not as strong as he, but something seemed to have broken inside him. He seemed suddenly implacable, trying to devour Archie with all his might. Reaching up, Archie gripped a handful of his curls for balance and somehow they slid to the floor, Horatio pressing down hard on top of him. Archie’s head hit the wood – not hard, but enough to leave him dizzy – and Horatio seized advantage of the moment, ducking down and burying his face in Archie’s neck like a predator swooping in on his prey. 

His mouth was hot, arousing Archie for a bare moment. But then he was shuddering, twisting under the hard body above him; Horatio’s mouth clamped down, his teeth sharp and hard pushing through the delicate skin. Archie wanted to cry out, but all he could do was arch up and grip Horatio’s hair in one fist, squeezing his eyes shut until Horatio finally let go. 

For a moment, no sound filled the air but the rush of their ragged breathing, and then Horatio was looking down at him, eyes wild and disoriented. Archie swallowed, daring to hope that Horatio would return to himself again now that they had spent their anger and fall to kissing him as he so often did. But Horatio seemed to read the thought and shook his head. “Wash first,” he muttered, climbing off of him. 

The sickness in his belly growing, Archie sat up. Everything spun around him in a nauseating rush. _Wash first,_ the words echoed, and Archie wondered why they had to have the ring of Leviticus, declaring him unclean and unworthy. But numbly, Archie got to his feet; he did not want to be in this room or have Wellard’s scent on him either. 

~ 

It took a long time after Archie left for Horatio’s head to clear. He could not remember ever being so angry. But more alarming than that was the metallic taste of blood on his mouth – Archie’s blood from where he had bitten him. He did not know where that urge had come from – he had never thought he could bring himself to hurt Archie – but he had thought of Archie fornicating with that boy and had been possessed with the need to mark him. 

That had been stupid. He had wanted Wellard to see, but what about the others? Out of port, no one could think a woman had done it. Horatio ran his palm tiredly over his face. Archie drove him mad, that was all. He jaw still ached from where Archie had struck him, but at least he could blame the bruise on clumsiness in the dark. 

He tried to tell himself that he deserved it, that blaming Wellard was not honorable, but the childish hurt and petty jealousy would not stop gnawing at him. Archie despised him now and everything between them lay in ruin. 

That had not been his intention either. He had come seeking Archie to apologize and explain that he had not meant what he had said earlier in the way it had come out. Captain Sawyer held him so deeply under suspicion that getting away with any transgression seemed impossible, particularly one that carried a hanging offense. He would never part with Archie for lack of loving or desiring him. How could Archie not see that? Caution was paramount. But Archie was too caught up in making precipitous assessments of their Captain to have any regard for caution of late. 

And now he’d had his boy. The image of them together was enough to make Horatio’s skin crawl though he did not care to speculate on the details. He had seen Wellard watching Archie with his limpid doe eyes, and though Horatio had never considered it, he had naturally assumed Archie would have the sense to refuse any overtures on the grounds of simple propriety if their own relationship could not be mentioned. Archie must have been out of his mind. 

Still, Horatio raged inside. A woman would have been easier to bear; he could have dismissed that as natural longing. But another man – a boy? How could Archie do such a thing and so soon? Who was next? Mr. Bush? 

But he had hurt Archie; he had to face that. It had taken Horatio a long time see it through Archie’s cockiness and cavalier scorn a few moments ago, through that damned haughty tone that got under his skin and enraged him. He had hurt Archie the minute those confused words had left his mouth hours ago. Horatio dropped his head in one hand. He should have said something then, only he had not realized how harsh and final he had sounded. But God, he had felt so watched, as though Archie’s naming the devil had drawn Sawyer’s eye, and what had once felt easy to do though forbidden now felt dangerous and impossible. _Bedeviled_ , Archie had said, and the more he had talked the more Horatio had burned to be away from him. He simply could not feel safe in the presence of such words. It was only later while Archie was on watch that he began to wonder if he were not the one going mad. 

Then he had caught sight of Wellard. The flushed, nervous look on the boy’s face had given him away. The realization had hit Horatio like a cannonball; he had felt knocked off balance and hollowed out. Archie’s wrinkled clothes, tousled hair, and red mouth had confirmed it and Horatio had felt sick. He had wanted to find the boy and . . . . And Archie had been so deliberately unrelenting, almost smug. Horatio swallowed. He had never thought to see the day when Archie would not belong to him. 

That was ridiculous. Archie was beautiful and charming. Women often looked at him. Horatio did not know why he would think that men would not as well. But he had never thought Archie would want . . . . Well perhaps it was clear now what was most important to Archie. 

In any case, Horatio could not stay here. They shared quarters and appearances had to be kept. It would no good for the others to observe the tension between them and guess the reasoning behind it. Resigned to that thought, Horatio stood up, snatching up the lantern and leaving the room behind him. 

The rain still poured, battering _Renown_ ’s sides, adding the perfect ambiance to this hellish night. Horatio did not relish the thought of spending four hours in the wet and cold after Bush’s watch ended. But he did not think of that now; instead, he headed for the empty wardroom and crossed into he and Archie’s cabin, latching the door behind him. 

Archie lay curled in his hammock, his posture alone giving away how upset he was. He was naked too, his shoulders bare above the blanket, covered in gooseflesh in the golden light. Horatio stared at him, watching him shiver visibly. If he was so cold why did he not pull the blankets up? 

It was not until Horatio turned to set the lantern down that he heard a sniffle and realized that Archie was crying. 

Horatio froze. Archie did not weep easily – perhaps when intensely happy or deeply frustrated or angry with himself, but never when upset or injured. Horatio could not help feeling a monster for having caused it, Wellard or no. The whole debacle of the evening now seemed petty and ridiculous. Archie was the only man he could trust aboard this ship and they had been intimate friends for years now; there was no reason they could not explain themselves and move past this. Perhaps if he took the initiative Archie would follow in kind. 

He slid his sea chest against the door and then put the lantern out, sliding out of his clothes once he was in the dark. Archie did not say a word, but continued to muffle his sniffles into the pillow even when Horatio came near and stopped beside his bed. He paused there, remembering how Archie had struck him, fearing he would do it again now. But Horatio held the thing steady by one of its ropes in any case, climbing up and sliding his bare legs under the covers where the cabin was freezing cold. 

For a moment, they lay swaying in tense silence, but unable to bear it, Horatio swallowed the rest of his pride and finally reached up to touch the man beside him. 

Archie jerked at his cold fingers when Horatio trailed his hand over the curve of his shoulder. But Horatio only curled up close against his back, wanting the warmth of him against his own chilled naked skin, slipping his arm around Archie’s waist instead. “You know I didn’t mean it, Archie,” he muttered in his ear, in a tone that would not be heard from outside under the noise of the rain. “You can’t say those things about the Captain aloud,” he went on when Archie did not move or respond, running his fingers absently along Archie’s side in that old familiar compulsion to touch him. 

The touch worked, as Horatio thought it would; no amount of anger could withstand their lying close like this. Archie swallowed, his body easing a little, and in a voice still thick and wet he said, “I knew that was it.” He showed none of the haughtiness of earlier, but was quiet and honestly hurt now. Horatio frowned, some of his anger dulling to remorse that his own inability to properly communicate himself had spawned this mess in the first place. “Did you think to punish me?” Archie asked after a moment. 

Horatio flinched, feeling vaguely insulted and angry again. Had it not been Archie who had punished him by going to Wellard? But he supposed, looking back on it, his refusal might have seemed that way; Men often found it beneath their honor to associate with other shipmates who engaged in mutinous talk. Was that why Archie thought he had turned away? Horatio grimaced; his little blunder was growing more damaging by the moment. At least matters were beginning to make sense now; Wellard agreed with Archie about the Captain – at least he had when the two of them had mocked Bush this afternoon. Were things so bad on this ship that men were now taking sides? Horatio gave Archie’s shoulder a tug, suddenly fearful. He did not want that kind of rift between them. 

“No, nothing like that.” His grip tightened on Archie’s shoulder. How to explain? If he described the itching sense of paranoia, that he felt Sawyer’s eyes on him constantly, Archie might think he had gone mad. But he had to say something. “Archie, I didn’t make what we have a hanging offense. Don’t be angry at me. I love –“ 

Archie’s sigh cut him off. He rolled over, upsetting the hammock again as he sank against Horatio’s chest, burying his wet cheek there. Horatio’s arms slid around him by habit; Archie felt so heavy and tired. They were both tired, tired of this damned ship and the peril it presented. Horatio ran a hand soothingly through Archie’s hair and after a moment his friend sighed again and relaxed. 

“To be in love is to not be able to resist, Horatio,” he said, beginning to trace idle little patterns on Horatio’s chest with his fingertips. 

Horatio closed his eyes at the warm, fond touch, but his own nagging hurt prevented him from relishing it fully. “You didn’t resist Wellard. Are you in love, Archie?” he ventured, sick with the thought of Archie sharing his gentle, skillful caresses with anyone else. 

Archie’s hand halted. Horatio opened his eyes. He could see Archie looking up at him in the darkness. “But I did,” he insisted, his tone firm enough that Horatio believed him. “You don’t understand.” 

No, Horatio shook his head, perhaps he did not nor did he want to. The details unnerved him and he did not want to talk about it anymore in any case. His fingers tightened in Archie’s hair, gently pushing Archie’s head back onto his chest again. 

“To love you is to want you safe, Archie,” he murmured, keeping his hand in Archie’s hair, lazily petting that golden silk. “Safe from your own damned tongue even. You cannot say such things aloud. I’ll stay watchful.” He need not watch anything more than Archie’s eyes. The others might not know him well enough to read them, but Horatio could find all the disapproval and anger there necessary to determine whatever course of action must be taken. “Hurting you was not my intention,” he added after a moment, rubbing his free hand over Archie’s broad back. 

“Nor mine,” Archie whispered back, not crying anymore. 

They stayed quiet for a moment, and warm. Archie’s hand resumed its lazy patterns on Horatio’s chest and then his mouth followed. He kissed lightly at first, just the skin he could reach, and then he turned, curling his fingers into Horatio’s side for leverage. Archie did not say a word, but rubbed his warm cheek against Horatio’s chest, his soft hair tickling the skin as he slowly moved his mouth, licking, lightly biting in some indolent onset of affection. 

Leaning his head back, Horatio’s breath came a little faster, his skin tingling wherever Archie touched with his lips or tongue. He grew warmer as Archie’s attentions became more insistent, gingerly gnawing and lapping at his skin like a small animal, sliding his hand over to toy with Horatio’s nipple as he tasted him. 

Hot now, Horatio arched under him, beginning to grow aroused from Archie’s heavy warmth and the sweet, languid pleasure. “Is it my fate to be nibbled?” he whispered a moment later, only for Archie to chuckle into his skin. Shaking his head, Horatio pulled Archie nearer. “Well, come nibble up here, then, little mouse.” 

Archie exhaled sharply at the invitation, as though relieved, and then seized Horatio’s shoulders for balance in the swaying bed and slid up onto his elbows. He fit perfectly in Horatio’s arms and felt so good where they pressed flush together that Horatio trembled, feeling the twitch in Archie’s hard prick as he did so. If only he could have wrapped his legs around him and asked Archie to take him, but they could not do that here. Horatio cradled Archie’s cheek instead, seeking his rosy little mouth. 

They kissed hesitantly at first and a little shyly, and it was then Horatio knew that Wellard did not matter, that Archie was as confused and hurt as he. He pushed his tongue gently between Archie’s warm, wet lips and the hesitation vanished; the only restraint between them now was the need to keep quiet. 

It was difficult with the way the stormy sea tossed them to and fro. Their bodies rubbed together and Horatio began to shift as much as he could without disturbing the bed, seeking to relieve the growing pressure in his lap. Archie took pity on him, wriggling down again, gently taking Horatio in hand. Settling his arms about Archie’s shoulders, Horatio closed his eyes in anticipation. They may have been doing this for years, but the pleasure of Archie’s mouth closing around him always seemed to catch him off guard. 

This time, his body rippled like a wave, his hips arching first and then his chest. Archie lapped at him with his tongue, swirling it around the head and then massaging down the length, bringing such exquisite pleasure that Horatio rolled his head from one side to the other, gripping the edge of the hammock with one hand. He held onto Archie with the other, for fear he might tumble to the floor, though perhaps he should have used it to cover his mouth to keep from crying out as Archie licked and suckled him. 

When the climax took him, he did cry out, only a whimper – nothing that could not be mistaken for a creak of the ship – and by the time it ebbed his fingers no longer had the strength to hold onto Archie anymore. 

“What was that for?” Horatio asked breathlessly when his head cleared, limp against the pillow and gasping. Given how hurt and angry Archie had been earlier Horatio would have thought him in no mood to give him pleasure. 

Wiping his mouth, Archie’s cheeks rounded in the distinctive shape of a grin in the darkness. “The same thing this is,” he snorted, stretching up and lightly tapping the mark on Horatio’s jaw where he had struck him earlier. “For being you.” 

Horatio blinked, not knowing whether to laugh or grimace. But he did know the mark hurt, forming into a bruise, and carefully pried Archie’s hand away from it. He also realized a moment later that Archie had been offering an apology, in his way, and seeing as how he’d had a hand in the mess, Horatio made to do likewise. He wanted to ask forgiveness for what he said about Simpson, but did not dare mention the man’s name again. Instead, he swung out of the hammock – that was easier than moving in it – and gripping Archie’s hand, tugged him into a sitting position. 

He said nothing, sinking to his knees and stretching up between Archie’s thighs, slipping his arms around him. His mouth found Archie’s jaw in the dark and he began kissing there, tracing the handsome, square line all the way to Archie’s ear and then moving down the supple side of his neck. His lips sought the mark he had made. Archie tensed when his mouth reached it, but then he dipped his head back and let out a shuddering breath when Horatio began to lick there, lapping up the sweet droplets of coppery blood while his hand crept down, running up Archie’s thigh to fondle gently between his legs. 

Archie was hard, wet at the tip, his heart beating fast against Horatio’s chest. “Now you want me?” he rasped, fingers clutching into the backs of Horatio’s shoulders. 

Horatio nodded against Archie’s neck. “Now that you’re clean,” he answered, but then wished he could take the words back. After all, he had wanted to forget the incident and not speak of it again. 

But Archie evidently wanted to speak of it. He pushed Horatio back, staring into his face though they could not see one another in the blackness. “There was nothing to wash away.” 

“What?” Horatio’s hand halted. Wellard had looked . . . . He had been certain. 

For a moment, Archie was quiet and Horatio feared he would not say more, but then Archie wet his lips and entered into a low tumble of words. 

“I didn’t seek him out. He flung himself at me and . . . and when I could get his attention again I tried to forge an understanding. I took no pleasure from . . .” 

Horatio stopped him, suddenly feeling foolish. “Oh,” he said, rather stupidly. 

He was stupid; he could have asked in a civil manner what had happened instead of making accusations, though he supposed Archie could have done the same. That did not matter now. The thought of that boy taking liberties with Archie disconcerted him, and Horatio would have to speak to him if this understanding did not hold, but he supposed Archie had been true to him in his own way and was undeserving of his anger. 

“Well take pleasure in this, then,” Horatio murmured in Archie’s ear and then slid his mouth away from the ugly bite, down toward Archie’s lap.


End file.
